The Opportunist by Tarryn Fisher Page B

more shots and we clink our glasses together. We linger at the bar for a few minutes watching the dance floor. We are still too sober to let loose.
    “Let’s go do some dance floor humping,” he says, tossing his lime peel into the trash. I follow him into the wiggling crowd as the tequila finds my head. 
    We dance until my feet feel numb and my hair is damp with sweat. Jim touches me more than he usually does. I equate it to Caleb’s return. Men always need to piss on everything they feel is theirs.  I let him pull me close. I am too drunk to care. It reminds me of the scene in Dirty Dancing where Baby crashes the employee party clutching the watermelon. We are dancing face-to-face, dirty. Jim doesn’t believe in the bumping and grinding, the token dance of teenagers. He calls it dirty spooning. We dance face to face. I find something very honest in that.
    We don’t leave until the D.J. starts packing away his equipment.
    “You okay to drive?” I ask him. I felt like I am bobbing in space.
    Jim snickers. “I’m as sober as a Preacher on a Sunday morning,” he twangs in a mock Southern accent.
     
    On the ride home I keep my eyes closed and let the wind blow over my face. We don’t speak much. Jim plays an old Marcy Playground CD that we used to listen to in college. Sex and Candy. I giggle when he sings loudly to the words.
    When we pull up to my apartment, he hops out of the car and follows behind me to the door.
    “Was this a date? Why are you walking me home?” I laugh. I dig around in my purse for the keys while he watches.
    When I look up, he is staring at me funny.
    “Jim?” I ask, taking a step toward him. “Are you okay?” I think that maybe he is sick. His face is blank and a little flushed, like someone who is deciding if they are about to throw up. I pull to a stop when he suddenly jerks forward. At first I think he is going to be sick but at the last minute he veers right for my face and tries to kiss me. I turn my head so his lips land in a wet mess on my cheek. When he pulls back, his eyes are red. “What are you doing?” I ask. Jim and I never go there. It’s an unspoken rule of mine.
    He is so close that I have to bend my head all the way back to see his face. We haven’t kissed since college.  
    “Is it because I’m not him, Olivia? Fucking, Caleb?”
    I shake my head. I feel so fuzzy. I can’t seem to formulate words quickly enough.
    “It’s not like that with us, Jim. Why now?”
    “You know sex doesn’t always have to mean something. It can be done for fun.”
    His eyes are blinking, blinking, like he’s trying to expel me from his vision. What am I supposed to say to that?
    “I think that friends should stay friends—without the complication of sex.”
    “Friends,” he croons, in a nasty hiss. “I’m sick of being your fucking reprieve.”
    I shudder. It is very true, but ugly to hear.
     
    “You’re a real cock tease, you know that?”  I look up in surprise. He has called me that in a joking way many times, but never in this tone of voice.  He is blotchy faced and red eyed and he is scaring me in that deep part of a woman that tells you to run. I take a step back.
    “Jim, you’re drunk,” I say slowly.  
    “I’m drunk and you’re a bitch.” Then he is all over me with his mouth, pushing against my tightly pulled lips, his hands between my legs. I make a muffled cry from behind my attack and I try to push him away. He doesn’t budge beneath my shoving and I realize there is nothing I will be able to do to stop him. I try to plead but everything seems to roll right off of him.  He is groping at me trying to pull my pants down. My neighbor’s door is less than ten yards away on the other side of the building. If I can break free, I can run for it. Then comes a moment when he is distracted and his grip loosens on my arms. I take the chance to wrestle my hands free and I slap him hard across the face. He draws back in shock and his hand cradles the place